


Diel Fin’al Thalas

by SapphireSmoke



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Atonement - Freeform, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fear of Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Medium Porn Burn, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Romantic slow burn, Suicidal Thoughts, The Val'kyr Have Actual Personalities, Uneasy Allies, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World of Warcraft: Shadowlands, Written before Patch 9.1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28827603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireSmoke/pseuds/SapphireSmoke
Summary: Desperate to circumvent her fate and leave the place that holds her literal nightmares, Sylvanas Windrunner seeks out the powerful Jaina Proudmoore to form a contingency plan. However, with the introduction of the mourneblade and the reminder of her traumatic past, Sylvanas realizes the mage is her only true path to freedom and, despite Jaina's initial reservations, an uneasy alliance is formed. Unfortunately, the mistrust between them comes to a crux at the worst time, and in order to move forward Jaina suggests an old elven agreement that, unbeknownst to her, she hasgravelymisunderstood the intentions of.orYet another marriage fic, except we're dealing with the Shadowlands mess and actually addressing Sylvanas' trauma.
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner
Comments: 78
Kudos: 195





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serpi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpi/gifts), [slaybob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaybob/gifts).



> Big thank you to [serpi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpi/) for ruining my life when I was already very busy by introducing me to this pairing, and [slaybob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaybob/) who basically held my hand and guided me throughout my attempt to learn more about this world. I have played WoW for over 10 years yet barely paid attention to the lore, but apparently if you throw angst-ridden lesbians in my face I become absolute trash, so here we are. This fic is as much their brainchild as it is mine— I just have the means between the three of us to translate their passionate 2am headcanons into an actual story, lol. 
> 
> As I am also writing another epic for a different fandom, this will updated every other Saturday, and yes I can promise a steady update rate as I am already a few chapters ahead. Normally I would tell you guys to prepare yourselves as this will be _long_ , but y'all do slowburn in this fandom to an extreme I have never seen before, lol, so I suppose I'll just say that it will be a fairly decent length when it's all said and done. Probably about 100k, seeing as I am apparently a _mess_ and it took me around 30k to even get to the accidental marriage part, which is the main point of this whole thing. Setting this in Shadowlands really made me put in the extra work in order to justify it, lmao. God.
> 
> Rated E for later chapters, because I love porn and am not ashamed. 
> 
> (Also big thank you to my wife and beta, [BellaRei713](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaRei713/), who has still not managed to murder me despite getting very irate that I keep getting caught up in writing more fic instead of my original novel, lmao)
> 
> Banner Fan Art by [blackdaisies-DA](https://www.deviantart.com/blackdaisies-da/art/Jaina-and-Sylvanas-625477845) on Deviant Art.

**I.**

Dark tendrils seeped from opened pores, the shadows licking at a piloted corpse as Sylvanas Windrunner struggled to hold her corporeal form. The banshee bled shadows from her mouth, her eyes, the wound in the center of her chest that had ended her mortal life all those years ago, before she was able to reign it in and keep it locked within the body she had always known. The afterlife ached to separate her from the comfort of her mortal form however, the darkness knowing that she should have belonged to this place long ago.

Truthfully, Sylvanas despised it here— escaping her destiny as yet another tortured victim of the Maw was the entire damned reason she had begun to walk this path, and yet by some cruel twist of fate it had brought her _here,_ in the place where it all began, her desperation for change causing her to finally tear down the sky, rip open the world, and attempt to obliterate an archaic afterlife system that had chosen to condemn her for actions regardless of choice. It sickened Sylvanas to be here, to watch the brutal and never-ending torture of the worst beings in their world, in _every_ world, as it only furthered the rage and devastation and _confusion_ that had seeded itself beneath her ribcage ever since she had first escaped this place that wondered why her, why here, why, _why…?_

_Because you deserve it. Perhaps you did not then, but now… oh, but now…_

Sylvanas hissed through her fangs, shoving everything back inside of her as the shadowed tendrils that had briefly escaped once more retreated back inside her body. Her head lulled back as she closed her eyes, rolling her neck as Sylvanas willed herself to ignore her intrusive thoughts; voices that seemed to whisper through the winds of the Maw, reminding her of her worst fears. Although Sylvanas could not breathe, she mimicked the movements as she could still remember the sense of calm it had instilled in her when she was alive. It was a placebo effect and Sylvanas knew it, and yet it still _worked,_ and in the end that was all that mattered; whatever kept her sanity in this blasted realm, after all.

“This place is unraveling you, sister. We cannot linger here long.”

Sylvanas slowly opened her crimson eyes, her gaze settling on one of her val’kyr. Despite the battle maiden’s eyes being shielded by her helmet, the banshee could see in Signe’s expression that she was concerned as the val’kyr placed herself directly between her mistress and the entrance to the Tower of the Damned, her large wingspan shielding Sylvanas from the horrors within as though that alone could save her from them. From inside the intricate, ever-changing dungeon, the screams of its inhabitants were swept away by the howling winds of the realm. Sylvanas pulled her hood up further, her dull, colorless hair whipping across hollow cheeks that were beginning to resemble ash the longer she stayed in this place. She felt as though she were being sucked dry, and it encouraged a sense of urgency inside of her that she had never truly felt before as high elves had all the time in the world, and the dead even more so.

“I have little choice,” Sylvanas reminded her, voice much calmer than she truly felt. When she was in the mortal realm, it had been far easier for her to strip herself of emotion, to allow it to die inside of her the day of her sister’s betrayal when she vowed never to love, never to trust, never to _feel_ again as she became the dead, heartless being the world assumed the Forsaken were. But here, in a realm that threatened to gut her from the inside out, Sylvanas had a hard enough time keeping her goddamn _body_ tethered to her banshee form, let alone keeping her ridiculous emotions in check.

 _Priorities—_ Unfortunate, but necessary.

“You are right though. This place… _eats_ away at me,” Sylvanas admitted, voicing her weakness to one of the few beings who would not use that information to hurt her, as to hurt her would only hurt themselves. Their bond was not necessarily based on trust as there was no longer anyone that Sylvanas truly trusted, but her val’kyr were the closest things Sylvanas had to family now, and what tied them together turned out to be far stronger than _blood_ had proven to be.

Signe’s large wings beat against the violent winds of the Maw, and the creature allowed the tether that bound their souls together to become momentarily visible; a reminder, a promise. “We are here.”

_We are with you._

The tether faded from view, but Sylvanas could still feel it. She could always feel it. “I know.” Her gaze wandered upward, past Signe as she took in the massive tower before her, knowing her destination lay somewhere on the sixth floor. “But hopefully, we will not have to be for long. My patience is waning and my trust fragile; it’s time to form a contingency plan— see if there is a way we can expedite our aims so that we may rid ourselves of this place forever.”

The val’kyr did not respond, but she did respect her mistress’ words as she faded from view, watching over Sylvanas from the shadows like her remaining sisters. There was a part of her that still ached from the loss of the other six; a lingering pain as those who were tethered to her soul were either cut down or sacrificed. Sometimes, Sylvanas swore she could still feel them— like phantom limbs, long removed yet never forgotten. Technically, her lost val’kyr were a means to an end and had served their intended purpose, but no amount of logic would allow Sylvanas to objectively view the loss of a literal part of her resurrected soul as something entirely _separate,_ no matter how often she tried to convince herself that it was.

Which was _bullshit,_ frankly. It would be so much easier to not care.

It mattered very little, though; should Sylvanas achieve her ends, neither her val’kyr nor herself would have to fear death any longer, and so with a hardened resolve the Banshee Queen entered the tower of Torghast, her sights set on the most powerful prisoner that resided deep within its torturous chambers.

══════════════════

Jaina Proudmoore could feel her body weakening. This fight had been endless; a torturous loop that she could not find a way to break. It was a well-choreographed dance, every step decided well in advance of the last as Jaina was forced to follow along to a rhythm of another’s creation. A bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of her nose, the sweltering heat from the blazing demon she battled causing her clothing to cling to her as she sidestepped another ball of fire, the base of her staff hitting the stone stage she was forced to perform on as she conjured another ice barrier.

Her mana reserves were nearly depleted, and the toll it was having on her body was making Jaina feel sluggish and weak. Her heart beat heavily in her chest, the rhythm much too slow for the amount of adrenaline she should have had. How long had this fight gone on? When had it started? How long had she _been_ here? Minutes bled into hours and hours bled into days as Jaina struggled to inhale her next breath, the pain as sharp as the point on her next conjured icicle as she tried desperately to keep the demon at bay. In the end though, all it did was deplete her mana even further and achieve absolutely nothing, as magics seemed to only absorb into her foe and make it stronger. Jaina knew she needed to conserve her strength and yet her body acted without thought, a frostbolt building from the last of her reserves before she released it, her stomach sinking in her gut as she realized she was going to kill herself doing this before the demon could even touch her.

“ _Enough of this!”_ Jaina bellowed to the one who pulled at her strings. To her, her voice had been loud and commanding, but in reality it was small and weak, her knees beginning to buckle from under her as she tried desperately to reach for something that was no longer there. Her heart was slowing, her eyes growing heavy; she needed to _rest,_ she needed to rebuild that which she had expelled, but she had pushed herself too far, fought too long, and without the mana feeding her life force Jaina’s world blurred as the demon loomed over her, ready for its grand finale.

It descended on her, the heat from its searing coals beginning to burn the flesh from her bones before it even touched her. Jaina’s mouth opened in an agonizing scream, the darkness beginning to consume as she begged for the pain to end, for her to be set free, for it all to just _stop._

The screaming ceased, the silence deafening in its infinity.

Jaina opened her eyes, the strength having returned to her body as she found herself on her marker, ready to begin the performance all over again. She looked at the demon in the center of the stage, her chest heaving as her fingers tightened around the staff in her hand, beginning the steps of their intricate and never-ending dance as she moved in the very same way as she had last time, and the time before that, and the time before—

But something had changed. A sound, and then a shift in the air; a presence that had not been there before as curious eyes watched her from a distance. _Come out,_ Jaina wanted to demand. _Come out and face me as well, you coward._ But that was not in her script, was it? It was not a part of her routine and so Jaina pressed onward, advancing on the demon as though she actually believed she had a hope, a prayer, a _chance_ of winning this endless game. But this time, instead of following the script they had been given, her fate bared down on her, letting out a tremendous roar as it burst into violent flames that caused Jaina to frantically blink away in order to escape the unbearable heat, her chest compressing in disbelief as she watched the demon suddenly be consumed by its own power as it disintegrated into a large pile of smoldering ash before her.

Jaina stopped. Jaina _could_ stop, her feet planting somewhere they never had before, her breathing labored and uneven as the sudden realization that she had bodily autonomy unexpectedly gripped her. She immediately whipped around, knowing that she was not alone. The shadows moved, two red eyes peering at her from the darkness, and a fierce anger settled itself in the center of the Lord Admiral’s chest as she recognized who they belonged to.

The former Warchief of the Horde fell into a mess of shadows and tendrils as she billowed onto the stage that Jaina had been chosen to perform on, her corporeal form looking as though it might have had difficulty reforming, as it took longer than Jaina remembered when she had seen the elf shift between banshee and walking corpse on the battlefield. Truthfully, Sylvanas Windrunner used to encompass something firmly in the middle of the two, but as the woman reformed before her, the shadows retreating from whence they came, Jaina could not help but notice that the woman looked much more _dead_ than she ever had before. Sylvanas’ coloring, while it had always been rather unnatural, had paled to near ash, her skin looking more weathered and worn than it had when she had walked within the mortal realm.

Jaina’s teeth grit as her hand tightened around her staff, keeping herself propped up despite the mental exhaustion of her never-ending torture. “Enjoying the show?”

“I don’t enjoy repeat performances,” Sylvanas responded, her words holding a lingering amusement. She cocked her head, peering at the younger woman curiously. “Do you enjoy giving them?”

Jaina practically growled with contempt. She wished she could just tear into her, bury an ice lance deep into that already frozen heart of hers and shatter it, but Jaina was not stupid. Sylvanas would not have come here if she was not already protected from potential backlash and besides, Jaina was not overly eager to return to the maddening dance she had been forced to replicate an infinite number of times. If she could stay the return of that, even for a moment, perhaps she could save the lingering remnants of her sanity.

“What do you _want?”_

Sylvanas circled her, falling into the tired routine of predator and prey as she replicated the most overused villain trope. Jaina didn’t even bother hiding the roll of her eyes; of course a former high elf would have a flair for dramatic clichés. “Would you believe me if I told you I’ve just come to talk?”

“Original,” Jaina deadpanned, making a point to not even bother following the banshee with her eyes. Sylvanas Windrunner just had this _presence_ that commanded attention, which was precisely why Jaina refused to give her it. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re just terribly misunderstood, and that perhaps we don’t have to be on opposite sides of this war after all? Because if so, then it seems I’m not the only one forced to recite an overdone script.”

Sylvanas stopped, one of her ears twitching in annoyance at her captive’s tone. “You scoff, and yet you’re closer than you think, Proudmoore.” The elf met her gaze and if Jaina didn’t know any better, Sylvanas looked… tired. Still, it was she who tried to convince Jaina that her desire to keep fighting against the inevitable must be exhausting as she continued, “It drives you mad, doesn’t it— knowing every time how fighting that demon will end, yet being unable to stop it. It must make you feel… very _helpless.”_

Jaina’s eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her staff. Although she was certain striking out would lead to disaster, the mage kept her magic hovering close to the surface, just in case. By the hungry look in Sylvanas’ eyes, Jaina wondered if she could feel it. “ _Helpless_ is not an adjective I’d use to describe myself, but your concern about my well-being is touching.”

Despite herself, Sylvanas looked almost _entertained_ by her captive’s combativeness. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m concerned about _your_ well-being, Lord Admiral, but truthfully there is little difference between us, in the end.”

Something fierce and _angry_ rose up in Jaina’s chest at those words, the offense and disgust etched into the lines of her expression. “There is _every_ difference between us, you foul, _murderous—!”_

“And I’m the only one capable of such atrocities, am I?!” Sylvanas snapped, getting dangerously close to a woman whose instincts had taken over. Jaina responded by immediately conjuring five icicles that hovered threateningly over her head and Sylvanas, who had also acted on impulse, looked almost as though she had half-exploded out of her body, six long, black tentacles turned on Jaina as endless shadows poured from her form like billowing mist.

Sylvanas’ glowing red eyes glanced up at the weapons above the other woman’s head and she grinned bitterly. “Choose your next move wisely, because the second you loose an icicle, that demon you’ve become intimately familiar with will return to continue his little games with you.” Blood pumped mercilessly in Jaina’s ears as she refused to back down, although admittedly more out of spite than anything else. Sylvanas’ gaze briefly lingered on the mage’s heaving chest before returning to Jaina’s unnaturally icy eyes, her expression unchanged. “You forget, Proudmoore; the dead have all the time in the world. If you’re not open to speaking with me yet, then I will wait.”

The Banshee Queen took a step back then, reeling back in her shadowed form as she locked the most devastating part of her up in her immortal confines. Jaina still did not shatter her icicles though, allowing them to continue to hang over her head as a warning that she could and absolutely still _would_ loose them on her so long as she was certain that the benefits would outweigh the consequences, even briefly.

“Do you?” Jaina countered, watching a strange expression pass over the elf’s face; it wasn’t quite pained, but it certainly made it seem as though Sylvanas might be struggling with reigning herself back into her body. “Because you look like you’re coming apart at the seams. _Time_ might not be something you have as much of as you might think, Banshee.”

The rest of Sylvanas’ shadowed form finally made its way back into her body, and the corners of her lips curled in bitter amusement. “Your concern for my well-being is touching,” she echoed back to her, and Jaina’s brow quirked in challenge; a _promise_ to Sylvanas that she saw that weakness for what it was, and that she was not going to hesitate using it to her advantage. Which was why Jaina suddenly loosed all of her icicles at once, only half-disappointed that none had actually managed to hit their mark as Sylvanas hissed in fury, falling into the shadows just as they were about to impale her.

Still, Jaina had achieved what she meant to, and _that_ was the important thing.

“Fine, if _that_ is how you wish to play it,” Sylvanas’ disembodied voice echoed through the chamber while the pile of ash in the center of the room immediately reformed into the large fire demon, it’s body being set ablaze with a scorching heat that caused Jaina to back up a few steps, but not of her own accord.

The dance had begun once more.

It would be a steep price to pay, but if being in the Maw for extended periods of time was weakening Sylvanas to some degree, perhaps it would be better to prolong whatever the woman’s endgame was as best she could. It was a _dangerous_ game of chicken, as Jaina put her literal sanity on the line for this theory, but as Sylvanas seemed to have taken an interest in her for whatever reason, the mage knew she would be back. This visit was not just to taunt her— Sylvanas had something to _say_ and Jaina had yet to let her voice it, and by the utter look of frustration on the banshee’s face as she reformed near the entrance of the chamber, Jaina knew this was not how Sylvanas planned for this meeting to go, which only made the mage feel oddly victorious despite her current position, as she had at least succeeded in making _one_ thing difficult for Sylvanas.

“Let’s see if another hundred or so rounds with your inescapable fate makes you change your tune.”

The fire demon howled, Jaina conjured an ice barrier she knew in the end would not protect her, and Sylvanas’ bitter laugh echoed off the chamber walls as the mage was forced to look up at the very thing that might very well break her sanity.

_Fuck._

══════════════════

As it turned out, Sylvanas’ threat was an idle one.

Not that she wished to drive Proudmoore to insanity; the mage was powerful, which meant she was _useful,_ and that usefulness would diminish should the woman’s mental capacity become compromised by being forced to repeat the last couple hours of her life over and over again. Not that the Jailer understood her worth though— his sights were firmly set on the Boy King, and if that was his prerogative then fine, but Sylvanas did not plan to allow something as powerful as Jaina Proudmoore to slip between her fingers just because her partner did not see the mage’s potential.

Besides, it would not hurt to have an alternative should everything fall to pieces, like it so often seemed to. Either way, Proudmoore could be molded into an asset, and to not take advantage of that when she had the chance felt like a grave tactical error. The mage _oozed_ power— it curled off of her like smoke and just to breathe it in reminded Sylvanas of when she was alive and standing near the Sunwell, which was both intoxicating and incredibly _dangerous_ , and meant that Proudmoore's fate had to either be for her to be recruited to the cause… or eradicated so that she would not become a threat to it.

And truthfully, Sylvanas _detested_ wasting potential.

Especially potential that was not just powerful, but _intelligent._ Sylvanas had come back to the chamber that held the mage a few days later instead of the week that she had threatened, mostly so that she could manipulate Proudmoore into believing she was paying her a kindness by staying the Jailer’s torment of her for at least a couple hours. Unfortunately, when she used the orb outside of the room in order to see what was waiting for her inside, it seemed the mage had already figured out how the chamber actually _worked,_ and was currently seated in the center of the room, her staff laying across her lap with her eyes closed.

Sylvanas pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring as she closed the orb’s connection, watching the image dim back to black. Around her, the shadows continued to whisper and pull at her, but Sylvanas found it lessened significantly while in the tower, although perhaps only because the torment of this place was not meant for _her._

Yet.

“Impressive,” Sylvanas begrudgingly admitted. Not many were able to work out how Torghast operated, as each chamber was tailored to take advantage of its prisoners’ weaknesses, which many have a blind spot to.

“Dangerous,” Brynhildr corrected her, and Sylvanas glanced back at one of her val’kyr who hovered a few feet behind her. She knew Brynhildr had meant it as a warning, but in truth this only made Proudmoore more intriguing, which was a goddamn difficult feat to achieve; after nearly a thousand years of life before undeath, Sylvanas had felt as though she had seen most things in the world, but Proudmoore? She felt… different. She felt like something _new._

Sylvanas’ tongue pressed against the point of one of her fangs as she grinned wickedly. “The most impressive things always are.”

The heavy door was pushed open with purpose then, the val’kyr fading from view behind her as they allowed Sylvanas to appear alone. “No, don’t get up,” she instructed Proudmoore as she held up her hand to halt the other woman’s movements, the opening of the chamber doors having alerted the mage that she was no longer alone. “You and I both know you would never make it to the door in time unless you used the one thing that would trap you once again in that maddening cycle.”

Behind her, the doors swung closed with a loud bang, locking the two women inside. Proudmoore did not listen of course and had pushed herself off the ground, her gaze firmly locked on the intruder as Sylvanas approached her. “How long did it take you?” the older woman asked, the question more conversational than anything. Truthfully, Sylvanas was curious; by Proudmoore’s demeanor, it seemed like she had been without this relentless torment for at least a little while now. Unlike during Sylvanas’ previous visit, the woman was no longer soaked in sweat, nor did it seem like exhaustion had overtaken her. At most Proudmoore looked… well, a little bored.

“Not long,” the mage responded as she swept her long silver and blonde braid over her shoulder, of course choosing to be nonspecific so that Sylvanas could not get a good read on her abilities. Proudmoore stood tall in her victory, and Sylvanas could not help but drag her crimson gaze over the length of her as she assessed who was before her. At least without the constant hum of arcane hovering just beneath the surface, Sylvanas found it easier to be in the mage’s vicinity, because otherwise the woman was… _distracting_. “I have you to thank, truthfully— your insistence that the second I used my magic would be when the demon reappeared led me to realize that my instinct to protect myself in that way was what triggered the loop. I’m also fairly certain the reason I am unable to open the door even when I’m free from this is because to do so _needs_ magic, which of course coming from me would only cause the cycle to begin all over again.”

Well, well. She _was_ observant, wasn’t she? Yes, this chamber was set up that despite Proudmoore’s victory, she would still be unable to leave. It was, after all, first and foremost, a _jail._

“Regardless, I’m sure now that I’ve figured that out you’ll have some other kind of torture in store for me, so I’ve managed to refrain from celebrating.”

Sylvanas quirked one of her long eyebrows. “I’m not here to torture you, Lord Admiral; nor was it I who was doing it before. The Jailer controls this place, not me. I’m simply… _visiting._ ”

Proudmoore scoffed at that answer. “You may not pull the strings yourself, Banshee, but you’re still complicit if you merely stand aside and _watch_ while others suffer _.”_

Sylvanas shrugged, walking the length in front of her captive. “It’s a gray area,” she insisted, unperturbed. “Besides, I’d play nice if I were you; I may not have the keys to this place, but I can stay the hand that does in order to give you a brief reprieve should I decide I feel _giving_.” Proudmoore, of course, only rolled her eyes at that, as the very last thing she planned to do was be _thankful_ for anything Sylvanas provided her, but that had been expected. In time, the mage would appreciate what she could give her. “I know you and your merry band of do-gooders like to paint me as some kind of _villain,_ but I assure you, my reasonings for doing this are sound. One day, you may even thank me. From what I’ve heard, you aren’t exactly the _purest_ soul… are you?”

The mage looked at her as though she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to take that assumption, but that she had _definitely_ decided that it was offensive. “I’m fairly certain the quality of my soul is absolutely none of your Tide’s damned business—”

“You’re right,” Sylvanas interrupted, watching the other woman purse her lips into a tight line, her grip tightening around her staff. “It’s not. I’m not here to _judge_ you, Lord Admiral, but someone else here _is,_ and as I’ve recently discovered, judgment is passed on us based on what we are _capable_ of— regardless of whether or not we have yet to commit the acts that have condemned us. Tell me… does that seem _fair_ to you?”

Sylvanas’ voice stretched, her dark gaze meeting the mage’s. Suddenly, a strange tightness had settled in her chest. Someone, _someone_ had to listen to her— someone had to fucking _realize_ that the afterlife was broken, because Sylvanas could not keep shouting into the wind to no avail. She was close, she was _here,_ but the truth of the matter was that Sylvanas did not fully trust the Jailer to hold up his end of the bargain, and she needed someone on her side that was intelligent enough to open their goddamn eyes and _see_ what was really going on.

And while Proudmoore was not her first choice by _any_ means, at this point she seemed to be the only decent choice that Sylvanas had, and that had to be worth taking the chance on her. Besides, from what Sylvanas had heard, Proudmoore wasn’t like most humans— when presented with her brother being turned into one of the Forsaken she didn’t condemn him, cast him out, or treat him as a monster; she welcomed Derek back to her home as family, which meant that regardless of the mage’s dislike of _her,_ at the very least Sylvanas would be judged and no doubt mistrusted based on her actions alone, and not just because she was undead, which was… frankly a very low bar, but at this point Sylvanas was used to starting at the very bottom with her expectations.

It made it far harder for the world to disappoint her.

══════════════════

Jaina’s frustration with being so close to freedom yet being unable to escape had been mounting at an alarming rate before she had decided to sit down, close her eyes, and just _breathe._ Perhaps the cruelest torture of all was even allowing her to figure out how to halt her torment while in this chamber, only for the very thing that condemned her to it being needed to open the door. Jaina had yet to figure out how she could feasibly use magic to escape _without_ summoning the demon, and truthfully a part of her doubted it could even be done. Still, that did not mean that she couldn’t use another to do it _for_ her, which was where Sylvanas came in.

Unfortunately, Jaina was well-aware that the likelihood of getting a jump on the Banshee Queen was very low, as was defeating her in combat when the other woman had access to her banshee abilities and Jaina was left relatively defenseless, as she was unable to use her magic and her hand-to-hand skills were, well… fairly sub-par.

Still, the fact that Sylvanas felt the need to check up on her meant that she wanted something, and _that_ gave Jaina leverage. All she needed to find out now was how best to use her advantage, and that unfortunately meant actually _listening_ to what Sylvanas seemed eager to explain to her, even though the strange reverb of her voice was endlessly annoying. Jaina was fairly certain she was only throwing her voice like that to sound more foreboding, unless the woman’s vocal cords were really _that_ damaged in undeath.

Somehow, Jaina doubted it.

She wasn’t foolish enough to label Sylvanas as _desperate_ though _,_ despite there being an edge to the woman’s tone that could not go ignored and so Jaina indulged her, albeit tentatively— the last thing she wanted to be on the receiving end of was a well-rehearsed manipulation, after all. Her gaze connected with Sylvanas’, her eyes narrowing as she requested elaboration. “What are you talking about?”

Sylvanas’ brow quirked. “I’m talking about all those innocents you would have slaughtered, Lord Admiral, should you have only gone through with your assault on Orgrimmar.”

Jaina sucked in a sharp breath at that, the unexpected answer feeling as though it punched her in the gut. But before she could say anything in response, Sylvanas was already continuing.

“I’m talking about the Purge of Dalaran, and the attempted genocide of the Sunreavers—”

“ _Genocide?!”_ Jaina shouted, that word causing her blood to run cold when used in connection to her own actions. Her breathing shallowed, her stomach pulling violently in her gut as she refused to believe that was the reality of it. Sylvanas was _twisting_ it, trying to make it sound far worse than it was, despite the whole thing being a rather bloody affair. “How dare you; you weren’t _there—_ I never meant for anyone to die, but they resisted their exile, they—!”

Sylvanas waved her off, looking wholly unconcerned. “I’m not interested in your excuses— we’ve all done cruel things to achieve our ends, and I am already acutely aware that I am the very last person who could ever judge you for it.”

Well _that_ was fucking true.

Jaina’s chest heaved in anger, but no words came; frankly, it was hard to form a _thought._ The mage’s hand clenched into a fist, her fingernails digging into her palm as she willed herself to _calm down,_ because Sylvanas was probably her only Tide’s damned chance of getting out of this place.

“My _point_ was that you are capable of genocide, Lord Admiral; not just in that ‘we’re _all_ capable of doing anything’ type of way, but in a very real, soul darkening way. However, you _chose_ not to flood Orgrimmar after all. Your _intentions_ were not for bloodshed in Dalaran. But what if I told you that. Does. Not. _Matter?”_ Sylvanas hissed, accentuating each word in order to drive her point home. The banshee’s crimson gaze searched the other woman’s as she got far too close for comfort. Jaina stood her ground though, refusing to give an inch of space as she stared Sylvanas down, her brow furrowing in anger and confusion.

“What do you mean, that doesn’t _matter?_ Our choices are _all_ that matter—”

“ _Wrong,”_ Sylvanas firmly interrupted, bearing her fangs as she attempted to keep her temper in check over the apparent injustice of this system. “When we die, we are not judged on our actions in life, but on our capabilities, which means that pleasant, _cozy_ afterlife you’re looking forward to? It is not _meant_ for someone like you. It’s not meant for someone who has the capability of murdering thousands— innocents, _children…_ even if, in the end, you did not do so. To the Arbiter, it is important only that you hold that kind of darkness inside of you, and regardless of your actions in life you can and _will_ be condemned for that darkness… but not if you help me stop it.”

Jaina’s first instinct was to scoff, and so that was what she did as she stared at the woman in front of her like she had to be insane to truly believe that was how the world worked. But that was the thing, wasn’t it— it very well _could_ work like that. How would Jaina know, _really?_ Though they had their assumptions, no one on Azeroth really _knew_ the inner workings of the system.

It seemed absurd though, to judge people on what they were capable of, rather than what they had done. Truthfully, Jaina was apt to believe that all of this was just bullshit.

Still, Jaina stared at the woman in front of her, realizing there must be more to this story and… despite her better judgment, found herself curious. So, in the interest of trying to get some insight on what the hell Sylvanas and the Jailer were _really_ planning, and in an attempt to get the other woman to trust her so that she may finally have an opening for escape, Jaina kept all of her comments to herself for the time being as she exhaled a long, resigned breath.

“I’m listening.”

**TBC…**


	2. II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Putting the Chapter Notes here, as Chapter Summary was yelling at me about being over the character limit with my "Previously" excerpt. However, I know it's been 2 weeks since I updated, and they were in the middle of a conversation, so I figured a refresher might help. I sure as hell know I would need one if I were you guys, so. Haha.
> 
> Anyway, those of you on Tumblr might recognize a scene near the end of this that I posted before I began writing this story as a way to practice writing Sylvanas. I hate wasting decent writing though, so I found a way to fit it in. So don't worry, I'm not plagiarizing anyone. It's all me, lol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Previously:**  
> 
> 
> “What do you mean, that doesn’t _matter?_ Our choices are _all_ that matter—”
> 
> “ _Wrong,_ ” Sylvanas firmly interrupted, bearing her fangs as she attempted to keep her temper in check over the apparent injustice of this system. “When we die, we are not judged on our actions in life, but on our capabilities, which means that pleasant, _cozy_ afterlife you’re looking forward to? It is not _meant_ for someone like you. It’s not meant for someone who has the capability of murdering thousands— innocents, _children_ … even if, in the end, you did not do so. To the Arbiter, it is important only that you hold that kind of darkness inside of you, and regardless of your actions in life you can and _will_ be condemned for that darkness… but not if you help me stop it.” 
> 
> Jaina’s first instinct was to scoff, and so that was what she did as she stared at the woman in front of her like she had to be insane to truly believe that was how the world worked. But that was the thing, wasn’t it— it very well _could_ work like that. How would Jaina know, really? Though they had their assumptions, no one on Azeroth really _knew_ the inner workings of the system. 
> 
> It seemed absurd though, to judge people on what they were capable of, rather than what they had done. Truthfully, Jaina was apt to believe that all of this was just bullshit. 
> 
> Still, Jaina stared at the woman in front of her, realizing there must be more to this story and… despite her better judgment, found herself curious. So, in the interest of trying to get some insight on what the hell Sylvanas and the Jailer were _really_ planning, and in an attempt to get the other woman to trust her so that she may finally have an opening for escape, Jaina kept all of her comments to herself for the time being as she exhaled a long, resigned breath.
> 
> “I’m listening.”

**II.**

While getting Proudmoore to _listen_ was Sylvanas’ sole aim in that moment, it had still surprised her to hear those words come from another’s mouth so easily. Although in hindsight it had not been very long since she had died, the mistrust and disdain from others had become so routine at this point that Sylvanas had let go of the expectation of being treated with actual respect a long time ago. Truthfully, that was perhaps one of the hardest things to get used to. When Sylvanas was Ranger-General of Quel'Thalas, others valued her words— they looked at her with respect and took what she had to say at face value. Ever since becoming the Queen of the Forsaken though, often many would reach for her underlying motives, assuming everything that she did should be mistrusted, simply for having the audacity to _exist._

And while it was clear that Proudmoore did not respect her, as Sylvanas’ list of — albeit, somewhat selfishly motivated, but all together wholly justified — war crimes now was miles long, she was willing to treat her as someone who deserved to have their voice heard, at least for the time being.

“I know what you think of me now, and what you believe I deserve,” Sylvanas began, walking the length of the room in front of the other woman, her gaze piercing and imploring; asking the woman to stay her judgment for a moment, and just _listen._ “But the things that I have done to cause the damnation of my soul are a byproduct of the fact that I already knew it was damned a long time ago, and that in the end, nothing I did _mattered.”_

Proudmoore’s brow creased, but for the time being she chose to say nothing in response.

“Considering their desire to join me on the battlefield lately, I’m sure you’re aware of the existence of my val’kyr, and what they are able to do for me,” Sylvanas continued, feeling the tethers to her soul tighten as her guardians watched their interaction from the shadows. “But do you know how I came to obtain them?”

Proudmoore momentarily pressed her tongue to the back of her incisors, a dark expression on her face. “I heard a rumor that they were imprisoned by Arthas,” she responded, and Sylvanas could hear the slight waver in the other woman’s voice when she mentioned his name out loud. “I’m sure you wasted no time doing the same once you were able. I cannot deny that they are a great tactical advantage, despite _slavery_ being absolutely despicable, but, then again, the ends always justify the means for you, don’t they?”

Despite herself, Sylvanas actually grew offended by that. “You believe I _enslaved_ them?” she barked, stepping away from the woman as fury etched into the lines of her expression. Sylvanas held her hand up, signaling to her val’kyr not to intervene despite feeling their anger seep into her from the shadows, exacerbating her own. “After what I endured from the Lich King? After I was made to be a puppet for his wrath, watching helplessly from inside the creature I had become as he used me to murder my own people? I was an _object_ to him— my body was kept hidden away like some sort of fucking trophy he obtained to do with as he pleased, and you think I would strip another of their autonomy in that regard? Do you know anything at all, mage, or do you just so love hearing the sound of your own holier-than-thou bullshit that you’ll choose to believe anything that fits your narrative?”

Sylvanas’ chest heaved, yet another byproduct of her habits when she was alive. She stared at the woman across from her, crimson eyes blazing. “I _know_ slavery, human. I know what being stripped of choice feels like. I am not so quick to do that to another.”

Proudmoore was rigid, her jaw tight as she held eye contact. The mage did at least look a _little_ bit ashamed of herself for that assumption, and of course rightly horrified by the information that Arthas had _kept_ the other woman’s corpse, but as she seemed content on despising anything to do with Sylvanas based on principle, those emotions were shoved down as she held onto that defiant streak inside of her, wedging the gap between them even deeper. “And yet, you raise the dead against their will,” Proudmoore responded evenly. “What is that, if not slavery?”

It felt as though the woman had reached down Sylvanas’ throat and sunk her nails into her guts, twisting and _pulling_ them halfway up her esophagus. It was an ugly emotion; one that managed to suffocate a woman who could no longer breathe as Sylvanas’ eyes flashed, feeling herself stand taller in defense. “I raise those that are _willing,”_ the banshee responded dangerously. “For the most part, I—”

“ _For the most part_ ,” Proudmoore repeated, and Sylvanas felt her anger worsen as she realized a part of what she was feeling was _shame._ But that was unacceptable, because Sylvanas was no longer mortal, and therefore should not feel weighed down by those burdens any longer.

“It was _war!”_ Sylvanas loudly reminded her, feeling as though that made many of her transgressions justifiable. Leaders do what they must in order to ensure victory; that was nothing _new_ by any means, and condemning her for it seemed terribly unjust considering Sylvanas _knew_ Proudmoore’s people have done things of similar caliber. “The survival of my kind depends on the replenishment of the fallen; a sacrifice of a few for the good of the many. Regardless, they are not slaves; the Forsaken _have_ their free will, or was that not apparent when I was shot in the head by Godfrey, or when _your_ brother exercised his when he turned on me and fled to _you?_ Believe me, Proudmoore, if I had them enslaved like you’re so quick to believe, _neither_ of those things would have ever happened. _”_

At the mention of her brother, Proudmoore’s expression twisted into rage, her eyes flashing white with power as she allowed her magic to hover near the surface again. Pure arcane seeped out of the woman much like the banshee’s spectral form, and Sylvanas had to stop herself from instinctively gravitating toward her. It was a lot— Sylvanas had been around plenty of powerful mages before, yet had felt the effects of next to none of them since her death. _If_ she felt their power at all, it was muted, faded— but that mana bomb had _done_ something to Proudmoore, and an already powerful archmage became something far, far more dangerous.

“You _dare_ mention Derek to me? _You?_ ” the younger woman seethed, her chest heaving as her body practically crackled with energy. Proudmoore knew better than to release her magic now, it seemed, but her instincts were still there. The woman laughed bitterly, cruelly. “I have to say, Banshee, for desiring an audience, you sure as hell don’t know how to play to yours.”

Sylvanas knew she was losing the other woman’s interest in this interaction and as that was not her aim, tried to reel herself in long enough to offer something that resembled an apology. Even if, frankly, Sylvanas felt she had nothing to apologize _for._ If anything, Derek owed _her_ an apology for being yet another goddamn person who betrayed her. Still, Proudmoore was a _human,_ and as a race they tended to get rather dramatic until they were offered that kind of sentiment. “Raising your brother was merely a tactical maneuver. You are the enemy. It wasn’t _personal—”_

_“Don’t.”_

Proudmoore’s voice was dangerously low, the word almost vibrating through her chest as the magic in the air became stronger. It licked at the banshee’s skin, crawling down her spine as it made her chest hollow and her nostrils flare. Sylvanas did not acknowledge the effect it had on her though and merely stared at Proudmoore, tall and strong-jawed. A part of her wondered if this was even worth it; surely eradicating the mage would be easier, but Sylvanas had never been one to take the easy route— especially should the end result prove to be personally advantageous. That was why Sylvanas finally took a full step backwards, allowing both Proudmoore and herself a moment, as she was aware that nothing good would come of this if both continued to be combative.

Because honestly, Sylvanas despised wasting her time.

══════════════════

It took a lot of self-control not to drive an icicle through Sylvanas’ eye the second she mentioned Derek.

Jaina knew it wasn’t personal; how could it be? Sylvanas did not know her. They had spoken briefly many years ago, after the events of the Wrath Gate, and that was about the extent of it. They knew _of_ one another, of course; this conversation had _clearly_ demonstrated that both women were well-aware of the history of the other. So yes, from a tactical standpoint, Jaina could understand what Sylvanas was trying to achieve by raising Derek and attempting to use him against her.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t piss her the _fuck_ off, nor did it mean that she owed Sylvanas rationality. The bitch certainly had not earned it. It was one thing to raise a soldier right after they had fallen, and Jaina understood that many of the Forsaken feared a permanent death, but Derek had been _long_ dead and it felt… _violating,_ to rip him from his afterlife like that.

Still, as furious as she was over it, Jaina knew it was better to try to stay her temper. Attacking Sylvanas would get her nowhere except perhaps into a new torture chamber, and she would not be that foolish. So Jaina gave herself a moment to breathe, allowing the arcane storm inside of her to weaken and settle into little more than a mere raincloud. Truthfully, a part of Jaina wished they would just fight; the simplicity of it would be a welcome change from whatever _this_ was. What little she had heard of Sylvanas’ truth was already unnerving, as it had been far easier to demonize her. Jaina had known what Arthas had done to the Forsaken, but she hadn’t known _enough,_ it seemed, and now that she was beginning to, nothing of what she had learned sat well with her.

Jaina still blamed herself for quite a lot when it came to her former lover, her plaguing thoughts of ‘ _if I had just done more’,_ or _‘perhaps if I had only tried harder’_ becoming a constant barrage of guilt whenever she allowed her mind to linger on the man, and hearing what Arthas had done to Sylvanas only made it worse. Still, Jaina would not allow it to show in her expression; she did not need the other woman to sense her guilt and use it against her. Jaina’s expression remained stony, detached— at least until the other woman took another step, and continued with her story.

“I’ve died a handful of times,” Sylvanas admitted, getting back to the point of their original conversation. “But only once has my soul moved on to the afterlife. After I threw myself from the top of Icecrown Citadel—”

As that was _not_ a sentence that Jaina had been expecting, she nearly choked on her breath as she stumbled over her request for clarification. “After you— you _what?”_

Jaina’s eyes widened, her jaw gently slacking as her chest compressed with instinctual sympathy for someone who must have seen no other way out of her misery. Sylvanas’ expression remained unchanged despite the reaction she received, but Jaina could see unrest behind her piercing gaze as she talked about her suicide as casually as one would mention the weather. It was perhaps that which unnerved Jaina most of all, that Sylvanas did not consider her pain worth lingering on.

“Following the Lich King’s defeat, I saw little point in continuing to exist, and so I sought to rectify the issue,” she responded simply, and Jaina’s stomach wrenched unpleasantly in her gut. “The saronite spikes below were the only thing able to obliterate my undead body—”

Jaina held up her hand to halt the other woman’s explanation— the last thing she wished to do was _picture_ it. “I understand what your aim was, thank you.” Her voice was tight, her lungs compressing uncomfortably in her chest as she stared at Sylvanas like she was seeing her for the first time and frankly, Jaina did _not_ like it. This was the woman who had set Teldrassil aflame, who had helped trap Jaina and her comrades in their current torturous misery, and she did _not_ wish to feel sympathy for the woman Sylvanas used to be, as she could not bear the one that was before her now.

Sylvanas peered at her, her expression darkening as one of her ears twitched. She did not seem to enjoy being pitied, and since Jaina did not enjoy feeling sympathetic towards someone so morally reprehensible, neither women lingered on that subject for long.

“I am not so damaged that I believe I deserve a peaceful afterlife,” Sylvanas admitted, although Jaina took note of the strain in her voice; this, _this_ was the part that Sylvanas needed her to listen to, and so the mage stayed quiet and allowed her to speak her piece. “But when I fell to what I had hoped would become my permanent death, the last thing I expected was to be sent _here._ And I do not mean Torghast; I mean the empty part of the Maw— the place that hollows you out, shreds apart your soul, and leaves you wondering if you will ever feel anything other than fear and agony again as all you know, all you _experience_ for the rest of your eternity is nothing but darkness and loneliness and _pain._ That place is for the most vile creatures— unredeemable souls who have committed the worst atrocities, and at the time, the majority of my crimes were committed while under the control of another! They weren’t even _my_ sins, and yet I believed I was being judged for them all the same, because despite its unreasonable cruelty, it was the only thing that made _sense_.”

Sylvanas’ tone grew heavier, more insistent, her voice stressing as she gestured angrily at the realm around her. “But as it turned out, this entire afterlife was nothing but a self-fulfilling prophecy that doomed me from the start! Because what was worse than believing I was condemned to the Maw due to another’s actions, was finding out far, far too late that what _actually_ condemned me were all the things I was going to do _after_ the val’kyr I struck a deal with helped me to escape; things I did _solely_ to prevent myself from ever returning here! Everything I was capable of, all the atrocities I would commit in order to save myself and others like me from being unfairly judged by the Arbiter was the entire reason I was fated to suffer! To add even more insult to _that_ injury, I have since found out that while Hellscream and his ilk languish in atonement amongst the denizens of Revendreth, there were those of us for whom repentance was never even an option! Explain to me, mage— _explain_ to me why that is something you should be fighting to restore? Does that sound like a _fair_ system to you?”

Sylvanas’ imploring gaze searched hers like she actually expected Jaina to answer, yet the younger woman couldn’t do much else other than _stare_ at her as she tried to process what she was being told.

No, of course it didn’t sound _fair,_ but Jaina had a hard time believing that was truly how the process worked as it seemed _so…_ well, for one it challenged the notion of free will. If Sylvanas’ afterlife was predetermined by the acts she would commit to prevent it, then she truly never had a choice in who and _what_ she would become. Still, it seemed like such a cop out for all the _horrible_ things that she had done that Jaina found it hard to look at things objectively.

Sylvanas seemed to understand and accept that she had done some unforgivable things, and was horribly slighted by the fact she wasn’t offered the kind of redemption in Revendreth that others had been given. But then that begged the question— _could_ the Banshee Queen be redeemed? Did she even want to be, or did Sylvanas just want to avoid the Maw at all costs? Even if Sylvanas’ intentions were genuine, that still left the question of whether or not the woman even deserved to have that chance— now, after _everything_ that she had done.

Jaina did not know how the afterlife worked; she had a vague understanding of the realms but even that knowledge was spotty at best, as it wasn’t as though many returned from the realms of the dead, and those that _did_ were not that eager to speak of their time there. Still, it was not because of her ignorance on the matter that she did not pass judgment on Sylvanas in that regard; it was the fact that she knew it was not her place to. Jaina could not look into her soul and see who Sylvanas _truly_ was, but the desperation and anger in the other woman’s voice made it sound as though the Arbiter, who _should_ have been able to do just that, had looked inside of Sylvanas and read her entirely _wrong._

Jaina didn’t know what to believe. On one hand, this was a woman who was proven to be underhanded with her tactics, and this entire speech could be nothing more than a well-rehearsed play meant to manipulate Jaina into becoming a sympathetic ally. But on the other hand, if what Sylvanas was telling her _was_ true, then Jaina could not help but see how easily something like that could have broken her. If Sylvanas had felt like there was only one path she was forced to walk… well Jaina knew from experience now that that was suffocating in its insanity.

Regardless, no matter how trapped or helpless Sylvanas might have felt when faced with something she feared was inevitable, that was _not_ a reason for her to cut down everyone in her path on her way to rectify it. Jaina pressed her lips together into a thin line as she stared at the woman across from her for a long moment until she finally spoke.

“ _If_ you’re right,” she stressed, as she did not want Sylvanas to think she was a fool who took her at her word. “Then no, that does not sound like a fair system.”

Jaina watched as some of the tension left Sylvanas’ body, causing her gaze to momentarily linger on the bulge of the banshee’s arm muscles before they relaxed into smooth, pale skin. Jaina blinked, pulling her line of sight upward to meet the other woman’s eyes. The heat in the chamber was still blazing due to the never-ending fire left behind by the demon, and sometimes Jaina felt as though she were drifting. She exhaled a long breath through her nose, straightening her spine as she steeled herself for the fight she knew was coming.

The mage’s gaze hardened. “But you went so fucking far beyond… _anything—_ ” Her voice shook, fingernails digging into her palm. “You are _not_ a victim. Not anymore. Maybe once I could have tried to understand the things you have done; we have _all_ done things we were not proud of due to war, or out of fear, or self-preservation, but you ripped a _hole_ in the Tide’s damned world. You slaughtered innocents when battles were already won. You—!”

As predicted, when Jaina ripped away her understanding just as soon as she had given it, Sylvanas hissed in fury, fangs bared. “Haven’t you been _listening?_ Nothing we do _matters;_ nothing you do, nothing I do matters at _all!_ Not until things change, not until I can tear down this entire system, not until—!”

“And what of the bodies you stepped over to get here?!” Jaina bellowed, getting in the other woman’s face. Her eyes flashed white while Sylvanas’ grew to a deeper, _angrier_ shade of crimson, black tendrils beginning to lick at ashen skin as Sylvanas failed to reel in both herself and her temper. “You are not the center of creation, Banshee! Many have _died_ from getting caught in your whirlwind, and yet because they are not but details within the bigger picture, you believe they don’t _matter?_ Tides, what a fucking _God_ complex you must have…!”

“I am only trying to do what is _right!”_ Sylvanas insisted, her banshee form continuing to seep from her skin as she struggled to collect herself. Truthfully, she looked unhinged— the desperate desire for someone to _understand_ her, to see what it was that _she_ saw, was causing Sylvanas to fall apart as her words only got louder, more frantic. “No one else saw this— no one else _knew;_ not until they found themselves here and it was far too late for anything to be done! I’ve seen both sides of this world, mage; if not me, then who else would rectify this?! Call it a God complex if you wish, but do not stand there and pretend that should you have found out _you_ were condemned for eternity by things beyond your control that you wouldn’t do _everything_ in your power to rectify it. I may not _know_ you, Lord Admiral, but even I can see that you’re not that compliant; you’re not that _weak—”_

“You’re right, I’m _not,”_ Jaina stressed, her eyes searching the other woman’s as her nostrils flared and the color in her cheeks grew deeper. “And that is why I would _never_ take the easy way out. Your desire for eternal justice didn’t need to have a trail of bodies behind it, but you couldn’t be _bothered_ to find another way, could you? Don’t you dare stand there and preach to me about doing what you believe is _right._ You may have, once, but it’s become a reason for you not to care; for you to do whatever you want under the banner of the ends justifying the means!”

Sylvanas’ eyes blackened as she gestured angrily, fangs bared and chest heaving. “You don’t know what I’ve done or _why,_ human!”

“What reason could you _possibly_ have had for the slaughter you ordered in Teldrassil?! How did murdering innocents get you _any_ closer to your goal of remaking the afterlife?” Jaina challenged, causing the other woman to hiss furiously as she finally stepped away from her, looking as though she was going in circles inside of her own head. Maybe that was it, in the end— Sylvanas was simply driving herself mad trying to rewrite her own fate. Jaina could practically hear the justifications being turned over in the banshee’s mind: _but, but, but…_ And yet it seemed Sylvanas did not know how to voice her reasoning for that, as perhaps she had either lost her justifications, her words, or her mind.

But the longer this interaction continued, the more Jaina was growing concerned that it may be the latter, and that made the Banshee Queen far, _far_ more dangerous than they had originally suspected, and something Jaina wasn’t entirely sure she was adept to handle on her own.

══════════════════

Sylvanas felt like she was losing her goddamn mind, and it was making her _angry._

Proudmoore had this way of turning everything around so that it made her sound _worse,_ when all Sylvanas had been trying to do was explain to her that everything she thought she knew about life after death was _wrong—_ backwards, unjust, and in need of reform. Yes, she had done morally reprehensible things to get this far, and _yes,_ she did believe that the ends justified the means because Sylvanas wasn’t the type of person to sit and cry for every life lost along the way, if at the end of the day it could save both _herself_ and so many others from suffering the same fate that she had.

She had _thought_ Proudmoore to be a kindred spirit, as the woman had a history of doing what she believed was right regardless of the consequences— consequences that, if Sylvanas had heard correctly, had even managed to kill Jaina’s own _father._ She had thought the mage understood that sometimes sacrifices had to be made to achieve greater ends, but perhaps Proudmoore had grown soft over the years. That was so incredibly disappointing that it almost _ached—_ for a moment, Sylvanas had actually convinced herself that someone might understand what she was trying to do, but that only infuriated her more because it wasn’t as though she needed someone to understand. What she _needed_ was Proudmoore’s power; the rest of the woman was irrelevant, _including_ her opinion.

And yet the woman’s _opinion_ was causing Sylvanas to look back at her choices for explanations she didn’t even know were there anymore. Teldrassil… did not turn out how she had imagined, but that did not mean that she regretted her choice. That did not mean that she didn’t have a _reason,_ and as Sylvanas looked at Proudmoore and tried to reel in both her temper and her banshee form so that the other woman did not see the cracks that were beginning to form in her façade, the mage’s figure blurred as the fire that surrounded the base of the chamber reminded Sylvanas of what had happened that night.

“You can kill us… but you cannot kill hope.”

Sylvanas could remember the belief of that wretched ideal bleeding from the fallen lieutenant in greater quantities than the blood that had seeped from the wounds on her back. Sylvanas had found herself nearly choking on the sentiment as the fury, the devastation, the soul-shredding pain of how goddamn _wrong_ that woman really was began to consume her whole. It was sudden and it was violent, and for a moment, Sylvanas’ world slid out of focus and she no longer saw Delaryn before her, but an image of a woman long dead as the screams of the past echoed in her mind.

Hope. Yes, Sylvanas had known hope, once. She had hoped to hold Arthas back and protect her people, only for one of her own to betray her. She had hoped for a clean death, only to be forcefully tethered to this miserable world in the servitude of her murderer. Sylvanas had _hoped,_ when she had desperately reached for peace through oblivion, that she would be greeted with a fair afterlife in which to spend her eternity— but hope, it seemed, was not for the wicked, even if that wickedness was first born from the whim of another.

Truthfully, hope was nothing but pain— an endless cycle of masochism that even now, despite her desire to free herself from it, Sylvanas could not help but grasp onto as she _hoped_ that should her plans with the Jailer come to fruition, and she finally met her ends, that there would no longer be any need for hope at all, for everything would be _fair_ and _transparent_ and finally fucking _acceptable_. She disgusted herself, truly— Sylvanas had known better then and she damn well knew better _now,_ and yet it seemed the mortal desire to hold on to the tatters of dreams had never left her as she desperately tried to free herself from the chains of destiny that bound her to a path she no longer wished to walk.

Hope had ruined her; had gutted Sylvanas from the inside out as the harshness of reality had cut into her sternum and seeded itself within a heart others had claimed was long dead. Truth be told, Sylvanas wished it was. In the end, it would have made everything so much easier. But that was alright, because Sylvanas could remember what had happened now— she remembered _knowing_ that she could make it easier for others by destroying that which would have decimated them, if only it was given the chance.

Sylvanas recalled looking down into the wide eyes of Delaryn Summermoon, watching the last few breaths linger on the elf’s lips. Sylvanas briefly wondered in that moment if the woman knew yet that she was looking into a mirror; the eyes, the skin, the _ears_ may have been different, but the determination and the bravery and the _foolishness_ had been discomforting in its familiarity. But, perhaps, that was what Sylvanas— no, what _Delaryn_ had needed. There had been a sense of frantic urgency that rose up within the Warchief after that thought, a chance to do right by another despite its inherent cruelty, but the _world_ was damned cruel and the transparency of that bore the chance of hardening Delaryn and giving her strength when she would ultimately arise a bastardization of the woman who had helped her meet her untimely end.

It was something Sylvanas had wanted for herself and her own death, truthfully. If this was the fate that had been woven for her while she walked on Azeroth— Forsaken, doomed, a _blight_ upon this world and everything in it, then she could accept that— but it did _not_ have to come with the pain of hope tethered to the tapestry, and after what she had done… neither would Delaryn’s. Neither would _any_ who had witnessed the fall of Teldrassil.

Because Sylvanas would have set them free. She would have set them _all_ free.

Sylvanas could remember her gaze flickering to the tree as the realization of what she must do swirled behind her crimson eyes, a sense of victory pulling at the edges of her lips. “…Can’t I?”

The fear in Delaryn’s eyes had deepened with those words, and a tear slid down the night elf’s cheek.

Sylvanas had been gentle, almost tender when she cupped the woman’s face with her palm, encouraging Delaryn to look upon the death of her _true_ enemy. She had understood even then how she would be viewed for this crime, but Sylvanas had held little doubt that in the end it would be worth the pain she had caused. What did it matter, anyway, how she achieved her ends? As she had wasted breath trying to explain to Proudmoore, her fate was already written, and although Sylvanas knew she would fight against it with or without the mage’s help, she was also aware that the likelihood of being crushed beneath the weight of destiny was staggering, if not inevitable. In the end, that was why Sylvanas reasoned that night that if she could not save herself, then at least she would be able to save others from walking the same path as her, and finding naught but pain, disappointment, and failure in a world that promised something better, yet fell so very far short.

Sylvanas could remember slowly rising to her feet, the hollowness in her chest more apparent than it had ever been as she vowed to kill the one thing that had tainted her dreams, her reality, and the last of her sanity.

_“…Burn it.”_

The words echoed in the back of Sylvanas’ mind as reality flooded back, leaving her with yet another woman who did not understand her aims. Delaryn, at least, had come around in the end— although only after she had been raised as one of her Dark Rangers. Perhaps _death_ would be the thing that would open Proudmoore’s eyes as well, though their being in the afterlife might cause unnecessary complications when it came to raising. It left Sylvanas with little choice other than outright _convincing_ the mage to join her cause, which seemed to be growing more and more unlikely by the minute, as Proudmoore was just standing there, _staring_ at her, as though she actually believed Sylvanas could put into words why she had chosen to burn that tree when she had already won.

And yet, Sylvanas still tried, despite knowing she could never truly verbalize how she felt, because she could never trust anyone enough for them to know the depths of her pain. The banshee exhaled another breath she did not need, her shadows finally returning from whence they came as her anger suddenly fell away to melancholy. _“Hope…_ was their true enemy,” she told her simply, unable to meet the mage’s gaze as she chose instead to stare into the flames behind her. “I set them free.”

A small scoff was exhaled from the younger woman, this look of utter horror, of _disbelief_ etched into the lines of her expression. Proudmoore took a noticeable step backwards, as though space would keep her from being corrupted by whatever darkness had seeped into Sylvanas’ soul. “…You’ve _lost_ your mind.”

Maybe she had. Sylvanas did not know anymore.

Nor did she have the effort for whatever this was any longer. The banshee took a step back as well, her face expressionless as she tried to ignore the heaviness that had made camp in the middle of her chest. It felt as though it were growing larger, and that if she did not get out of there that it would soon overtake her completely. “I can see this endeavor was pointless.”

Proudmoore’s jaw tightened. “Well-spotted.”

It was unfortunate, really— the mage could have been a great asset, yet instead, like so many others, she allowed her morality to stand in the way of an important goal. Perhaps that was just what mortality _did_ to people though— Sylvanas could often remember her own moral code screwing her in the end when she was alive, and yet she continued to hold on to it until the bitter end despite it apparently not doing a _thing_ for her immortal soul.

Because look at what had happened… and look at what it had wrought.

**TBC…**


	3. III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys ever see that meme someone drew with Sylvaina and it’s like, “Ah yes. Me. My Wife. And her three remaining val’kyr”? Because that’s an accurate representation of how I view Sylvanas’ relationship with her val’kyr, and this chapter proves that, lol. Make room in the bed for her emotional support battle maidens, Jaina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **Previously:**   
>    
> 
> 
> A small scoff was exhaled from the younger woman, this look of utter horror, of _disbelief_ etched into the lines of her expression. Proudmoore took a noticeable step backwards, as though space would keep her from being corrupted by whatever darkness had seeped into Sylvanas’ soul. “…You’ve _lost_ your mind.”
> 
> Maybe she had. Sylvanas did not know anymore.
> 
> Nor did she have the effort for whatever this was any longer. The banshee took a step back as well, her face expressionless as she tried to ignore the heaviness that had made camp in the middle of her chest. It felt as though it were growing larger, and that if she did not get out of there that it would soon overtake her completely. “I can see this endeavor was pointless.”
> 
> Proudmoore’s jaw tightened. “Well-spotted.”
> 
> It was unfortunate, really— the mage could have been a great asset, yet instead, like so many others, she allowed her morality to stand in the way of an important goal. Perhaps that was just what mortality _did_ to people though— Sylvanas could often remember her own moral code screwing her in the end when she was alive, and yet she continued to hold on to it until the bitter end despite it apparently not doing a _thing_ for her immortal soul.
> 
> Because look at what had happened… and look at what it had wrought.

**III.**

“I grow tired of this— the longer this takes, the easier it will become for their precious _champions_ to rescue those we have taken. Worse, the Jailer’s inability to heed my concerns are growing… frustrating. The Boy King will not yield— we are wasting our _time.”_

Sylvanas sat heavily on what could probably constitute as a stone bench, if not for its relatively uneven surface. She did not care though, choosing to ignore how uncomfortable it was so that she could properly deal with her exasperation as she lay on her back, focusing her gaze on the swirling reds and oranges of the sky. Around her, a constant barrage of piercing wails ripped through the air, disrupting the moment’s peace that Sylvanas had so desired. Outside of herself and her val’kyr however, the surrounding area outside of Torghast was deserted; it seemed useless to station guards outside of a prison from which its inhabitants had never escaped.

The banshee’s expression darkened; the screaming was growing louder, presumably from the captives inside. All except _Proudmoore,_ no doubt, as the mage seemed to be the only one who was able to stay her torment— at least for the time being. Once the Jailer got word of her victory over the chamber, Sylvanas was sure the woman would be moved to another, but considering the Jailer was occupied with _other_ concerns for the time being, and the fact that Sylvanas had instructed the Mawsworn guards not to inform him of the development just yet, it seemed Proudmoore would be allotted an extension to her reprieve. Sylvanas wasn’t entirely sure why she had not moved to condemn her— an inability to admit defeat, perhaps. After being a mouthpiece on behalf of the Jailer as she wasted _more_ of their time by focusing on the annoyingly unbreakable Wrynn child, Sylvanas almost had an urge to try again with Proudmoore until she thought better of it, and chose instead to leave the tower altogether.

The Banshee Queen pinched the bridge of her nose as she closed her eyes, trying to block out the noises so that she could have a moment to _think_. The screaming continued though, an ever-constant in a realm of torment. Sylvanas exhaled an unneeded breath, feeling the darkness of the Maw beginning to pull at her again— beckoning her damned spirit back to where she was unfairly fated to rest. “…I despise this place.”

Sylvanas’ three remaining val’kyr surrounded her; one at her head, the other two positioned at her sides. Sylvanas slowly opened her eyes, seeing the one on the left look down at her with a rather judgmental expression as her wings beat rhythmically against the howling winds of the Maw. “Dramatics aside, the longer you linger here, the more you are allowing things to eat away at you— you are getting worse, sister; becoming easier to unravel should one only tug at the right thread, and it seems there are many to grab a hold of lately.”

Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed. She _detested_ being called dramatic; it was an unjustly earned elven stereotype that as a member of the undead, she did not even fit any longer. Sylvanas momentarily struggled to reel back in her banshee form as it threatened to escape her body for the umpteenth goddamn time, before pushing herself into a seated position and forcefully encouraging Brynhildr to make room for her change of position. The val’kyr watched black tendrils lick at her mistress’ skin, the corners of her lips turning down into a frown. Brynhildr was no doubt already aware that Sylvanas would not appreciate her comments, but she had always been overprotective to the point of aggressiveness, as she seemed constantly frustrated by Sylvanas’ inability to heed her. As such, Brynhildr was quite blunt about her opinions, knowing that Sylvanas needed to hear them whether she liked it or not. Signe was the same way when she was concerned, although took better care with her words, which made her far less frustrating to converse with. And Kyra…

“The more she unravels, the more the pretty mage will grow sympathetic to her,” the youngest of the val’kyr chimed in, running her porcelain fingers over the large spikes that protruded from the Banshee Queen’s armor. The movements were rather suggestive with their slow, purposeful strokes while Kyra knelt next to Sylvanas on the rock, allowing her large wings to fold neatly against her back. Sylvanas generally did not enjoy others in her space, but she had gotten used Kyra; truthfully, having the battle maiden so close had become something of a comfort at times. “She is angry— mourning the lives of those who were lost in our wake, but she will not stay that way. For a moment, she listened to you; she looked as though she might actually _see_ you, which will make her easier to sway. _She_ is the power we should be focusing on; not only because she is stronger than the silly child King, but because she would be _ours,_ and not a puppet of the Jailer. So let her tug on your strings if you must, sister; I am sure you would find being ‘unraveled’ by a woman far more enjoyable than your other options anyhow.”

“ _Kyra,”_ Signe exasperatedly chided as Sylvanas glanced at the val’kyr next to her out of the corner of her eye, a decidedly unamused look passing over her expression at that last comment. Kyra was not wrong though, and to be fair she usually had a good point to make about a great many things, much to the other two’s dismay. More often than not, Signe and Brynhildr disapproved when Sylvanas chose to heed Kyra’s words over their own, as the youngest val’kyr was arguably the most reckless. However, with great risk bore the chance of even greater reward; a sentiment that both she and Kyra seemed to share.

And Jaina Proudmoore certainly was a _risk._

“Kyra, I have asked you before to stop touching her; you overstep,” Signe continued to scold as she watched her sister’s fingers find the ends of Sylvanas’ ashen hair, gently twisting and pulling as she seemed to recreate the metaphorical strings that Brynhildr feared others could now grasp. It brought Sylvanas a strange sort of solace however, knowing another had a hold on her, and the undead elf instinctively closed her eyes as she allowed Kyra to do as she pleased.

Perhaps she really was losing her mind.

“She enjoys it.”

“Only because she is lonely,” Brynhildr muttered before grasping Kyra’s hand and forcefully pulling it away from their mistress. “You make it worse for her. Have some sense.”

Sylvanas opened her eyes, trying to ignore the twist in her gut that that word elicited. _Lonely._ It was the truth, Sylvanas would not deny that; everyone that she had ever held some semblance of affection for had either abandoned her, or she had walked out on. Regardless of it being partly a problem of her own making though, Sylvanas did not need the reality of it thrown so harshly in her face— it made it far harder to ignore. “She is _here,_ in front of you. Stop speaking as though I am not.”

Signe’s scolding look was brought toward Brynhildr now, who beat her wings harder in response as she hovered just above the dirt, expression impassive, without a hint of apology. Sylvanas expected as much, and chose to look up at Signe. “What are your thoughts on the mage?” she queried, already aware of Kyra and Brynhildr’s conflicting opinions. “Or the Boy King, for that matter— every direction I face, I feel as though I’m being met with walls. Deciding which one is actually susceptible to being torn down should at least provide me with a way forward, if nothing else.”

Signe hesitated for a long moment, gathering her thoughts. “If you do not succeed in convincing Wrynn that he must join us, then I am concerned that the Jailer will make good on his word that he will be made to serve.” Sylvanas’ stomach twisted in her gut at those words, the sensation causing her to feel rotted and hollow. She did not allow her unease to show on her face, but it did not matter; her val’kyr had always known her better than any others. They were a part of her now. “I know you do not wish to do that, but I do not have faith that he will yield— if anything, the King will try to break _your_ resolve before you are able to break his.”

“That will not happen.”

“You asked for my opinion, sister; that is what I am giving you,” Signe gently reminded her, and Sylvanas said nothing as she leaned her elbows on her knees and looked out at the howling abyss of the Maw. She had known what the Jailer wanted her to do if Wrynn did not yield, and it reeked of what Arthas had done to _her_. It was something Sylvanas wished to avoid if she could help it. If she could not though…

The ends would justify the means. They had to, as Sylvanas truly did not know what she would do if they did not.

The sickening feeling in Sylvanas’ gut spread through a digestive system that should have been long dead. It was disconcerting, yet not wholly unexpected, and so she took special care to shove that terrible emotion back down into the depths where it could lie forgotten. “And the mage?” she asked Signe, needing to move on from that unpleasant scenario.

“Would be _your_ ally, not his,” Kyra reminded her, interjecting with a very strong opinion on which candidate she preferred. She placed a hand on her mistress’ knee imploringly, leaning closer so that the tips of one of her long, dark braids tickled the banshee’s shoulder. “Her power would—”

“Kill you,” Brynhildr interrupted flatly, forcefully slapping Kyra’s hand away, who growled as she spread her wings, beating them furiously as she stared at her sister. Brynhildr ignored her tantrum as she revised her previous statement, “Kill one of _us,_ rather. She cannot be unshackled; that kind of power will decimate us.”

“I did not ask either of you,” Sylvanas reminded them, impatient with their inability to get along. It had become worse since three of their sisters were sacrificed resurrecting her after Godfrey, that devastating loss causing her remaining val’kyr to become more vocal in their pursuit to keep everyone who was left _alive._ “I am already well-aware of both of your opinions; repeating them is unnecessary.”

Sylvanas knew she had offended Kyra when the val’kyr immediately removed herself her from her side, but that was a concern for later. For now, the banshee looked at her oldest guardian, seeking her wisdom on the matter. She could not falter with this; she had come too far, gotten too close, yet if she made the wrong decision, Sylvanas knew it would all come tumbling down.

Truthfully, she should have consulted them earlier, but Sylvanas assumed she knew what she was doing. However, she had apparently made a grave miscalculation, as her last interactions with both Proudmoore _and_ Wrynn had gone less than ideally.

Signe looked at her mistress patiently, her large wings beating rhythmically against the winds of afterlife. “Brynhildr is right; after your last encounter with the mage, I am inclined to agree that she is a threat to us for a… _myriad_ of reasons,” she vaguely began, and Brynhildr looked vindicated while Kyra hissed through her teeth, turning her back on the three of them in a show of displeasure. “But that does not mean that with the right persuasion she could not become an asset. She _would_ be easier to sway than the king, as despite never truly acting on it, she has the potential for great darkness inside of her, and that makes her a kindred spirit. However, she seems stubborn, so should you pursue the mage’s allegiance, it would be best if you met her halfway. I will leave it to you to decide what that entails.”

Sylvanas was silent for a long moment. In the corner of her eye she could see Kyra turn, suddenly interested in this conversation again, while Brynhildr muttered something under her breath and flew off a ways in protest. “Proudmoore is the best option then,” Sylvanas gathered, which was something she had believed prior to their poor interaction, which ultimately caused her to lose confidence in her decision.

“I am only reiterating what you have already decided for yourself,” Signe told her, knowing that despite Sylvanas’ desire for advice, she would not actually heed it should it not align with what she truly wanted, and that was _power._ Proudmoore’s was intoxicating in its potency, and truthfully Sylvanas could not stop thinking about it. She was sure it was that detail in particular that concerned Brynhildr most of all. “The mage is powerful, intelligent, and sympathetic to your plight, despite her moral obligation to condemn you for your actions. Besides, it would be unwise to assume a twisted creation of the Maw will not betray us eventually; having an ally of your own would form the basis of a failsafe should the Jailer betray us— and another target, if sacrificing her becomes pertinent.”

Sylvanas wet her bottom lip, considering that. “And if _she_ betrays us?”

The val’kyr’s large wings beat loudly against the wind as Signe hovered a few feet in front of her mistress, her large, imposing form suddenly resembling that of a fierce warrior, more than a trusted ear and confidant. “Then I will kill her myself.”

Behind her, Kyra smiled.

══════════════════

Jaina lay on her back in the middle of the blazing chamber, her hands firmly laced over her eyes as she exhaled her frustration with a loud, unintelligible sound. Tiny beads of sweat that littered her forehead moistened her fingertips, reminding Jaina that she could have been free from this sweltering nightmare of a prison should only she have kept her Tides damned temper in check.

She had _had_ the upper hand, at least until she squandered it— despite being imprisoned, despite having to endure relentless torture until she finally learned how to break free, Jaina _had_ the upper hand for a moment, because _Sylvanas_ had wanted _her._ The banshee did not visit her to gloat, or to continue with the torment that had been laid out for her captive— she had come with a _purpose._ Sylvanas had made an effort to explain why she was doing what she was doing, and she seemed rather insistent that Jaina not only listen, but _understand_ her side of things, which could mean only one thing: Sylvanas no longer fully trusted her allegiance with the Jailer, and was set on achieving her ends by whatever means necessary, even if it meant aligning with an enemy.

Fear had made Sylvanas desperate. Jaina had met the Banshee Queen many years ago after the incident at the Wrath Gate, and it was safe to say that the woman she had met then was _not_ the one who had recently stood before her. The things Sylvanas had endured after her suicide had changed her; she had always had a bit of an _edge,_ but now she was almost manic with her singular focus. If Jaina was being truthful, she understood it, and she _did —_ despite wishing terribly that she did not — sympathize with her on that. Sylvanas had _not_ deserved that fate the first time she had died; if Garrosh-fucking-Hellscream was allotted the privilege of repentance, then by those standards so should Sylvanas, but frankly Jaina would rather just throw them both in the Maw and be done with it.

It was such a simple solution for what was now a complicated issue, and Jaina despised it because she knew on some level she would actually feel _badly_ now should Sylvanas truly be condemned to this place. It was ridiculous; Sylvanas certainly deserved it after all she had done, but she _hadn’t_ deserved it back then and that made the entire declaration of Sylvanas’ eternal punishment sit bitterly on the back of the mage’s tongue. She wanted to voice it; she wanted to stand up and tell Sylvanas to her face that she deserved every Tide’s damned thing that was coming to her. But something about telling a woman who was murdered, enslaved, tortured — and then when she finally broke free and tried to find some semblance of peace, all she was met with was _more_ torture and torment — that she _deserved_ more of the same treatment, felt… horribly, _horribly_ wrong.

And that _pissed_ Jaina off, because Sylvanas had done terrible things that were absolutely deserving of eternal torment. Either way, how she felt about Sylvanas’ predicament was irrelevant in the long run— the woman did not need to know the truth of her conflicting feelings on the matter, she only needed to believe that Jaina might understand.

But unfortunately, Jaina had lost her temper and Sylvanas had _left,_ and now the archmage wasn’t quite sure what to do. Sylvanas had been her best chance of getting out of this place, and she had squandered it because she could not _imagine_ being unable to express how disgusted she was by Sylvanas’ choices, apparently. Jaina closed her eyes, pressing her fingertips against her lids before she slid them inward to pinch the bridge of her nose. She exhaled, allowing the breath to leave her at an agonizingly slow pace as she tried to subdue her frustration with herself.

She could fix this. She could and _would_ get out of here; she just needed to come up with a plan.

Sylvanas was losing her mind— that much was obvious. She was no longer thinking rationally, and that was enough to make her susceptible to manipulation, _especially_ if Jaina told her everything she wanted to hear. To an extent, anyway— going overboard with her agreement of Sylvanas’ predicament would obviously clue the banshee in that she wasn’t being entirely genuine. Despite Sylvanas’ declining mental state, she wasn’t _stupid._

Would it be horrible to take advantage of a broken and desperate woman who was just trying to find some peace? Yes. However, did that outweigh the justifiable action of her taking advantage of an egotistical, genocidal maniac who treated others as though they were expendable? Absolutely not. Jaina was fairly certain that she would be able to make peace with using and then subsequently betraying Sylvanas in order to get out of there and possibly defeat the Jailer once and for all, and if she did not, then that was guilt that she was prepared to live with.

Some things had to matter more than her own comfort and peace of mind— a lesson Sylvanas had clearly not learned herself. Because Sylvanas was right— what she was condemned to when she died was horrible, cruel, and absolutely unjust. But what she had done _since_ then fell under all those categories as well, and that made her an unsympathetic victim.

Jaina took her hands from her eyes and sat up, staring at the magically-sealed door on the other side of the chamber. She needed to find a way to get Sylvanas back there, but short of just _yelling_ for her and hoping for the best, Jaina’s options for contact were fairly limited. The mage puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled a hard breath, getting to her feet.

Screw it.

_“Banshee!”_

The word echoed through the mostly empty chamber, ricocheting off the walls and reverbing just like the woman in question’s unnaturally sounding voice. Jaina kept herself still, waiting to see if she could hear a response; if not from Sylvanas herself, then at least from whatever guards were in the tower.

No answer.

“Sylvanas!” Jaina tried again, figuring that perhaps the woman did not want to answer to the term _banshee,_ which was… fair, possibly. Jaina probably would have ignored the woman out of spite as well if she was being beckoned with ‘human’, but she didn’t particularly enjoy calling Sylvanas by her first name, mostly because she was more than aware of the woman’s aversion to voicing _hers._ It was an obvious attempt at putting a wall between them; Jaina _knew_ the woman was well-aware of what her first name was, and yet her family name was the only thing that ever passed through Sylvanas’ lips. Jaina was _not_ going to call the woman “Windrunner” though— although mostly because she refused to treat Sylvanas like _she_ was being treated, as that would make it seem like she wasn’t capable of creating her own minor annoyances.

And she most certainly was.

Now that Jaina thought about it, if Sylvanas was so dead set on erecting a wall between them by refusing to address her by her first name, that meant that if Jaina made a point to often use hers in turn, it would make her seem overly familiar, which in turn would probably make Sylvanas very uncomfortable. A slow smirk crossed the mage’s face then as she settled on her own minor annoyance to enact, because at this point, Jaina Proudmoore was running on pure spite and the inability to sleep— the inability to do… quite a lot, honestly. Her physical body while in the Maw did not need to do anything that it needed to do while on Azeroth, as she walked a weird line between life and death. Jaina couldn’t remember the last time she had slept, eaten, or even relieved herself, and it was… disconcerting, to say the least.

“Sylv— _shit!”_ Jaina gasped, halfway through her third call for the other woman. Unfortunately, that was not who showed up though, as suddenly one of Sylvanas’ val’kyr appeared behind her. Jaina had seen the large shadow the creature cast from the light emitting from the flames and she whipped around in surprise, nearly stumbling over her own two feet as she stared up at the _massive_ battle maiden in front of her. Jaina had only seen Sylvanas’ val’kyr once on the battle field and from very far away, so she was ill prepared for just how physically huge they were. This one was nearly twice her height and looked like she could break her in half with her bare hands, which was… unnerving— especially because Jaina essentially did not have access to her magic anymore. Well, unless she wanted to fight a val’kyr _and_ a demon, which she decidedly did not.

The imposing creature hovered a foot or two in the air, her large wingspan causing a light draft as she gently beat her wings. She did not say anything, and for the life of her Jaina could not distinguish her expression, although perhaps because nearly half her face was covered by her helmet. Jaina’s heart beat heavier in her chest, her skin prickling as her hairs stood on end. “I wish to speak to Sylvanas,” Jaina told her as she stood tall, refusing to seem as though she was intimidated, even though she wasn’t exactly _comfortable_ being this close to a val’kyr while essentially helpless.

The battle maiden said nothing though, and Jaina had the uneasy feeling that everything from her looks to her demeanor was being harshly judged. Could the val’kyr even talk? Tides, Jaina didn’t know. She knew they were sentient at least, as Sylvanas had gotten _awfully_ defensive about the assumption that she had enslaved them, which seemed to indicate they had a will of their own. Still, this one said nothing, and Jaina felt her cheeks flare in irritation, feeling very foolish all of a sudden. “Please?”

The corner of the val’kyr’s lips twitched. Ugh, she was messing with her.

Despite knowing that, _nothing_ prepared Jaina for when she finally spoke. The val’kyr’s voice was rather loud, which perhaps should have been expected from such a large creature, but it was also _deep,_ and the sound felt as though it was burrowing into Jaina’s core as she instinctively took a step backward. “What do you desire of her, mage?”

“A conversation, for starters,” Jaina responded a little irritably, as she was not pleased with how this interaction was progressing. The val’kyr had caught her off guard though, and as Jaina wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the very large, intimidating creature, it made her rather wary. She knew they were Sylvanas’ protectors, and as such did not particularly wish to provoke any of them— at least not this early, and _not_ while she was still trapped in a chamber that affected her use of magic.

The val’kyr did not say anything for a long moment, and Jaina was _fairly_ certain she was being stared at despite the battle maiden’s eyes being covered. Either way, the feeling it invoked was not a pleasant one. “Your last conversation yielded only ugliness and blame. Why should we allot you another?”

It made sense for them to stand in front of Sylvanas in this way, but it was also incredibly frustrating, and Jaina did not particularly enjoy having to explain herself to a third party in order to be deemed _worthy_ enough to speak to a Tide’s damned war criminal. Still, Jaina knew that she would get no where unless she appealed to the woman’s protectors first, and so she responded. “I had an emotional response to an emotional conversation— that is not unheard of, and it not something I will apologize for. However, I have since had time to consider what she told me, and while I do not and will _never_ condone the terrible things she has done, I do understand that her actions were not fueled by malice, but by a terrible fear that had overtaken her.” Jaina stared at the val’kyr, wishing she was able to make eye contact so that her words held more meaning as she finished, “As such, I am willing to talk terms with her— because I am not stupid; I know the only reason she would bother _explaining_ herself to me is because she believes my power could be an asset to her. An alliance is something I am willing to consider, so long as it is not a one-sided agreement.”

The val’kyr was silent, the only sounds in the chamber the faint beating of her heavy wings and the crackling of the fire. “Very well,” she told her, after taking a long moment to consider her words. “You will be allotted a conversation. But tread carefully, Daughter of the Sea; we are always watching, and we are _not_ forgiving.”

The val’kyr shrouded herself in invisibility then, disappearing from sight. Jaina bit the inside of her cheek, her gaze flickering over the expanse of the chamber, wondering just how many were ‘watching’ her. Truthfully, she had no idea how many val’kyr Sylvanas had— only that it was far fewer than when she acquired them. Whether there was two or twelve, however, the uncertainty about the exact number was unnerving— _especially_ because one of them had just threatened her.

Apparently, their last conversation had affected Sylvanas in a way they weren’t entirely pleased by, as they were now taking the time to practically screen her before allowing her to speak to her again. If Jaina was able to get under her skin that easily though, then that boded well; as morally despicable as it was to wish to take advantage of a woman that was clearly mentally and emotionally unraveling due to her crippling fear of death, the bigger picture had to be considered. The sacrifice of one for the good of the—

Suddenly, Jaina felt sick.

The mage wasn’t entirely sure whether it was because she realized she and Sylvanas might have some aligning views after all, or because her first instinct was to _justify_ it, and she was certain that was how Sylvanas talked herself through doing all of those things for the sake of the ‘bigger picture.’ Was this how it started? No— there had to be a difference, there had to be a _line;_ it wasn’t as though she would be sacrificing anyone innocent, after all. She would, at _most,_ only be sacrificing the woman’s sanity as she betrayed Sylvanas immediately following a promise to help free her from that which terrified her to the point of madness. Because that was exactly what she planned to do once she was able to speak to the woman: promise her an allegiance, strike a deal that would be beneficial to both of them in order to win her freedom, and then ultimately stab her in the back as Jaina found a way to free everyone else and restore the very Arbiter that had condemned Sylvanas to eternal torment. Despite its flawed justice system, it was certainly better than what the Jailer had done to the afterlife, and as such the ends _had_ to justify the means— as nauseated as that phrase made her feel now.

It wasn’t as though Jaina was going to _kill_ Sylvanas and condemn her to the Maw herself. Technically.

Except Jaina knew perfectly well that even should they manage to turn the tides and defeat the Jailer, that should Sylvanas survive the initial encounter, the leaders of Azeroth would call for her head. Sylvanas Windrunner was not meant to survive in any scenario where they _win,_ and while that should be a justifiable sacrifice after everything that the woman had done, suddenly the thought sat rather heavy in the pit of Jaina’s stomach. But she ignored it; she had to— the entire world depended on their victory, and she would not falter.

In the end, how she felt about it did not change what she had to do, and that was how Jaina justified it as she readied herself for a deceit that would be so easy to do, yet so very difficult to stomach.

══════════════════

Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember asking for an intermediary.”

“With respect, I do not remember needing your _permission,_ sister.”

Well. Signe was in a _mood._ From behind her, Brynhildr snorted sardonically, and of course _Kyra_ looked amused, but then again it didn’t take much to entertain her. Sylvanas folded her arms across her chest, staring at the massive battle maiden who had just returned to inform her that Proudmoore had requested a meeting.

Sylvanas had planned to pay the mage another visit as soon as she was able, but her prior engagement with the Jailer had to come before that as they discussed the reforging of a weapon that… put her at great unease, truthfully. During their discussion she had felt her tether to Signe weaken, but hadn’t thought much of it; sometimes they liked to wander, and Sylvanas could not blame them for that. They were entities in their own right, with their own needs, wants, and desires; it would be unreasonable to expect them to stay by her side constantly, though at least one of them seemed always to be within arm’s reach. Their primary purpose was to keep her well-protected, after all.

“You did not hear her calling out for an audience with you; would you have me ignore her next time, despite knowing that you wished to speak with her?” Signe challenged in an even tone. “Because that could be arranged, should you desire my neutrality on the matter that strongly.”

“You’re being unnecessarily aggressive about this; I thought you _condoned_ my plans for the mage?”

Signe was silent for a long moment and Sylvanas’ fingers curled over her bicep as she stared at her, waiting. “I do. But that does not change the fact that this could go badly, should you overestimate her sympathetic nature. While I still believe she is the better option, and while her desire to discuss an accord seemed genuine, this is by no means foolproof— something you will do well to remember. Be _wary,_ sister. Her being a kindred spirit can be both a comfort and a curse, and I fear you will find the latter while searching for the former.”

“I am not _searching_ for anything other than an escape from an unjustly earned fate, which you should very well know by now,” Sylvanas dismissed in an ugly tone, as she did not like the way Signe had worded that; it made her sound soft, _weak—_ as though she needed something or someone other than herself, and that had never been who she was. Sylvanas pushed her way past Signe, making her way toward her new destination. If Proudmoore wished to talk terms, then she did not wish to squander that opportunity by lingering too long on this unnecessary conversation.

“Do you think we do not know you?” Brynhildr this time, sounding offended on behalf of how Sylvanas had responded to Signe. “Do you think we do not feel what it is that you do?”

“I am dead, sister. I no longer _feel_ anything, so perhaps you are projecting; either way, I am not in the mood for an entourage. Find somewhere else to linger.”

“Our place is by your side,” Kyra interjected firmly, beating her wings in protest. “I will not leave it, although you are welcome to try to out run me.”

Sylvanas’ brow set. Sometimes, she didn’t even know why she bothered.

Kyra was not only combative, but very _rarely_ left her; even when the others did, she would always be the one who stayed behind. As such, Sylvanas was hardly ever truly alone, and while sometimes that was a comfort, at others it was a great annoyance. Still, despite her irritation, Sylvanas knew it would be foolish to speak with Proudmoore without at least one of them by her side, in case things went… badly.

“You may stay,” Sylvanas decided, speaking as though she were granting the battle maiden a great favor while pointedly choosing to ignore Kyra’s unamused expression. “You have not irritated me today. Yet.”

Brynhildr scoffed and Signe looked very disappointed by the way Sylvanas was acting toward her show of concern. “We are only looking out for you, sister,” Signe tried to explain, of course not respecting her desire for space until she had said her piece. Sylvanas exhaled a hard breath through her nose but did not look at her; instead she stared straight ahead as she continued on to her destination, her pace never wavering. “It was not my intention to offend you, only to warn you.”

“Then consider your words heeded. Now do me a favor and heed mine; you know I detest having to repeat myself.”

Signe looked at her for a long moment, the corners of her lips pulling down into a frown before she silently did as she was asked, and left. Sylvanas felt her tether weaken, and Brynhildr’s was not far behind as she followed after her sister. Her one remaining val’kyr chose not to speak as she accompanied Sylvanas to the chamber on the far side of the tower. Truthfully, Kyra did not look particularly happy with Sylvanas’ quarrel with her sisters, but as her priority for the time being was protecting her, she kept her thoughts to herself.

For now.

Sylvanas was _sure_ she would hear a slew of colorful things later though. Kyra was amused by petty conflict, so long as they remained together. The moment it escalated to one or more of them leaving, her mood tended to sour quickly. That would be rectified later though; right now, Sylvanas had other things to concern herself with, and as Kyra was the only one of her val’kyr who _agreed_ with her decision without an annoying amount of reservations, Sylvanas was certain that for the time being Kyra would allow her to focus on her goal with little to no interference, and for that she was grateful.

Sylvanas glanced over at her guardian for a moment once she got to the doors and Kyra, understanding what she was being asked with merely a look, faded from view so that she appeared alone. Truthfully, Sylvanas was concerned that Signe’s earlier visit had given Proudmoore an insight into her relationship with them, as if Signe had been _too_ protective of her, that would indicate a weakness that Sylvanas was not eager to share.

There was nothing she could do about it now though; should Proudmoore suspect, then the damage had already been done. Still, it was best that Kyra was not visible when she finally opened the large chamber doors, entering the prison that held one of the most powerful mages that Azeroth had ever seen.

Proudmoore turned around as the loud creak of the hinges echoed through the empty space, her long silver braid falling over her left shoulder as her gaze landed on the woman who had entered. As the door behind Sylvanas clattered closed of its own accord, the banshee took in the woman in the center of the room. Proudmoore stood tall and resolute, despite the reddened patches that adorned her cheeks and the sweat that littered her brow. The small hairs that framed her face were damp and curled, the sweltering heat of the chamber beginning to get to her as it made her skin almost shimmer beneath the flickering light of the fire. Sylvanas moistened her bottom lip, her gaze lingering for a moment on a bead of sweat that lay just beneath the woman’s nose before she raised her hand, using the new powers she had acquired to extinguish the flames in the chamber. Proudmoore’s brow rose.

“You can do magic.”

“I can do a lot of things,” Sylvanas responded, forcing her gaze to meet Proudmoore’s instead of… _lingering_ on other distractions. Sometimes, the enjoyments she had gotten out of life tended to spill over into her undeath, despite their impracticality now.

Sylvanas’ gaze briefly dropped to her hand, watching the tips of her fingers twitch before she allowed her gaze to rest once more on the woman in front of her. Truthfully, she would miss these newfound abilities once they were ripped from her, which they most certainly would be should she turn her back on the one who had given them to her. There was nothing quite like being able to send a seismic blast towards your enemy and decimate them almost immediately; something Sylvanas was sure the mage in front of her could relate to, should Proudmoore only allow herself the pleasure.

“You wished to speak with me.” Not a question, but a statement. Sylvanas stood mere paces in front of the other woman, her hands clasped behind her back as her crimson eyes bore into deep azure. She watched as Proudmoore raised one of her brows, her gaze momentarily flickering across the expanse of the room.

“You may want to tell your messenger pigeons that they could have been quicker; I’ve been waiting quite a while.”

Sylvanas felt Kyra’s offense run hot and loud through their tether and Sylvanas had to immediately raise her hand, signaling for the val’kyr to let it pass for now— the last thing she wanted was an _incident;_ not when she was close to gaining a considerable advantage. Unfortunately, it seemed the mage had chosen her words with careful intent, as that was exactly the kind of reaction she had wished to provoke.

“Ah, so they _are_ here.”

A dark expression passed over Sylvanas’ face. What a foolish mistake; of _course_ the woman was merely trying to see if they were alone. She would have done the same thing in her position.

“How many?”

“Enough,” Sylvanas responded vaguely, as that was the truth: in the end, all she needed was one, but she’d also prefer that Proudmoore believe it to be more. She allowed her line of sight to dip briefly to the anchor necklace that lay gently above the other woman’s breasts before finding her eyes again. “Speak then, if you have something to say. I do not have all day.”

Proudmoore exhaled a disbelieving breath as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you think I don’t know why you came to me before?” she challenged. “Don’t play coy with me, Sylvanas— it doesn’t suit you. If you wish for my help, then I want to know _exactly_ what you plan to give me in return, because my help does not come cheaply.”

The easy use of her given name startled Sylvanas momentarily, invoking a sense of familiarity that they _clearly_ did not have with one another. The elf bristled, one of her ears twitching as she stared at the other woman, who looked entirely too self-satisfied by her reaction, which probably meant that Proudmoore had already gathered that the term of address wouldn’t sit easily with her. And yet at the same time, it wasn’t entirely unwelcome either— now that she thought about it, it had been a good while since she had even been addressed as ‘Lady Sylvanas’, as it seemed the term ‘Banshee’ was a much more apt way to refer to an undead abomination than _Lady._ Even when she was leader of the Horde, ‘ _Warchief’_ passed people’s lips with a fair bit of disdain, as there were many who begrudgingly recognized her authority, yet did not want to acknowledge her as an actual person with a name.

As such, despite it being a little jarring to hear falling from the mage’s lips, Sylvanas decided she could live with it.

Moreover, she could easily turn it around on her, should Proudmoore wish to trade _discomforts_ that badly. Sylvanas allowed her head to gently tilt to one side, her gaze lazily dragging down the other woman’s figure. “Oh, I would never assume anything you could give me would come _cheaply,_ Jaina.” She said the woman’s name as though she wished to caress it with her tongue, and although Proudmoore’s— _Jaina’s_ reaction was only mild, as the mage seemed to have a decent hold over her surprise, the slight widening of her eyes and involuntary flush of her cheeks was _well_ worth it.

Jaina’s eyes narrowed, exhaling a hard breath through her nose. “I’m flattered,” she responded in an even tone, and the corners of Sylvanas’ lips twitched, unable to fully hide her amusement— _especially_ because she could feel how entertained Kyra suddenly was by this conversation.

Despite the appeal of such an exchange though, Sylvanas knew she had to move on, as they did have other matters to attend to. “You should be. You are powerful; despite our conflicting allegiances, I would not insult you by pretending otherwise.” Jaina’s hardened expression softened at that acknowledgment, although only minutely, as she still stared at the woman across from her with a fair amount of suspicion. “It would be remiss of me to squander such an opportunity, which was why I chose to come to you despite our obvious moral differences. I know you find my current methods despicable, Lord Admiral, but I am not attached to the journey, only the destination. Should a more… _appealing_ path open up to me, I would consider an alternative. I assume that is something you’d be interested in, as you have called me back here.”

Jaina’s fingers tightened around her bicep as one of her eyebrows crept higher. “Are you going to share what has suddenly made your current path _un_ appealing, or am I to be made to guess?”

Sylvanas kept eye contact, careful to keep her face expressionless. _“Did_ I say it was unappealing?”

“You implied it, and I have to admit that I’m curious what the _line_ seems to be for a woman who has already crossed so many. Call it a good faith gesture— to lay the groundwork of the trust that we would need for such an alliance.”

The banshee’s expression soured and she averted her gaze, looking at the space where she knew Kyra resided. The val’kyr’s tether strengthened in response, but the comfort it gave was minimal in the absence of the other two. Sylvanas’ eyes landed on the mage once more, displeased with this little exercise but realizing that a part of her truly _did_ wish for an alternative. “Taking another’s will. _Slavery_ — that is my line, despite it being a tentative one at best. Make no mistake, I _will_ cross it should I have to, but…” Sylvanas could not finish, her words falling away as she allowed that truth to settle in the pit of her stomach. It was heavy, unpleasant.

For the most part, Sylvanas truly did not care how she achieved her ends. But there was something about using a bastardization of the very weapon that had raped _her_ of her will on another that caused Sylvanas great turmoil. The terrible feeling had seeded itself inside of her core, planting roots in her gut before slowly spreading its sickness through her veins, suffocating her arteries until they felt as though they would burst with rot. Sylvanas knew that even should she have been able to breathe, that she would not have been able to, for the corruption inside of her would have taken that from her first. Sylvanas hated it because it made her _remember,_ when all she wanted to do was forget, and the longer she lingered on that thought the more it broke something inside of her that should have been fortified, as she should not be weakened by mortal emotions any longer.

“…Enslavement of who?” Jaina asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Perhaps she feared it would be herself, but it seemed the Jailer had not set his sights on her. Yet. The mage took an imploring step toward her, her voice louder, more insistent. “Sylvanas, what is the Jailer planning to do?”

The invasion of her space felt like a threat though, and Sylvanas immediately took a step back while exhaling a furious hiss, shadowed tendrils bursting from her skin of their own accord as her eyes burned a furious red. “What do you take me as?” Sylvanas snapped, trying to focus on the woman in front of her instead of the rush of sounds and images that had suddenly assaulted her. Sylvanas felt terribly unbalanced but Kyra was behind her, invisible yet still something she was able to ground herself to as she felt the val’kyr’s hands on her biceps. “I will not give you information without being granted something in return, and even then…” Sylvanas inhaled, feeling Kyra wrap her tethers around her wrists and up her arms as she affixed herself tighter to her mistress, reminding Sylvanas that although she felt like she was falling, that she was secure so long as she was there. The banshee’s vision returned to her, and she exhaled.

Before her, Jaina stood wide-eyed and silent, allowing Sylvanas to find herself back in reality before she spoke. When it seemed the other woman could focus on her though, Jaina quietly told her, “…I believe you.” Sylvanas swallowed, infuriated by her sudden vulnerability that was not _new_ by any means, but not something she had expected to happen just then. Her first instinct was to lash out, but the look on Jaina’s face gave her pause, as perhaps Kyra had been right; perhaps the more she unraveled, the more sympathetic the mage became, and the easier she was drawn in by her.

“You laid the foundation,” Jaina softly confirmed, as the severity of Sylvanas’ reaction must have convinced her that she was being genuine, and surprisingly… she was. Sylvanas blinked, her jaw tight as she stared at the woman across from her. It took a while for her to speak, and even when the words came, they were defensive and demanding in order to deflect from what had happened.

“And I’m to construct this tentative trust on my own, am I?”

Jaina swallowed, and Sylvanas could see that the other woman was just as uncomfortable about this as she had been. Good. She kept eye contact with her, waiting for something that would allow her to believe in the other woman’s intentions. “What do you want?” Jaina asked, and Sylvanas responded easily with, “Whatever it is that you do not want me to know,” because there was something— there _had_ to be. Even if Jaina was supposedly a ‘good’ person who always did the right thing for the right reasons, a part of Sylvanas felt as though this was all too easy, and she wanted to know _why._

Jaina exhaled a disbelieving laugh as she stepped away from her, expression masking in a strange mixture of distress and contempt. She was silent for a long moment, a great emotion suddenly swirling in the mage’s eyes as she seemed to debate whether or not the truth was even worth it. Finally though, she spoke, and the words were angry and blameful. “Despite how badly thinking this way sickened me, I had considered you an acceptable sacrifice for the sake of that Tide’s damned ‘bigger picture’ until about two minutes ago.” Her eyes blazing, Jaina reiterated in plainer language, “I would have betrayed you, but suddenly that thought is weighing much heavier in my chest in the wake of your obvious trauma, and you cannot begin to understand how much I _despise_ you for that, as this was meant to be an easy choice.”

Sylvanas could feel the truth in that from the passion and the _anger_ behind the other woman’s words, and despite the harshness of Jaina’s statement, the fact that she had admitted it at all gave Sylvanas a strange sense of peace. She knew what the other woman was capable of now, and therefore would keep a careful eye on her actions. “I believe you,” Sylvanas told her in return, and Jaina’s chest heaved as she stared at her, waiting for her next move.

Kyra’s grip on her biceps tightened, a silent confirmation that the val’kyr believed her to be doing the right thing. “If you help me circumvent my fate — by whatever means _you_ deem fit, so long as it yields acceptable results — then I will align with you against the Jailer,” Sylvanas bargained, one of her long eyebrows twitching as she gently raised it. “That _is_ what you desire, is it not?”

“I want a lot of things,” Jaina responded, her words a little breathless from the emotion she had expelled moments prior. Sylvanas’ brow climbed even higher, but the mage met her gaze and nodded. “However, we can discuss the details later. For simplicities sake, _yes,_ I will help you— so long as that favor is returned in kind.” Jaina held out her hand, the thrust strong and resolute. “Agreed?”

Sylvanas’ gaze lingered for a moment before she reached out in turn, grasping the other woman’s soft, warm hand as she felt a light current of arcane dance beneath the surface of Jaina’s palm. It was tempting, inviting, and Sylvanas did not want to let go, which is exactly why she knew she had to.

“Agreed.”

**TBC…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I found it, lmao.](https://slackergami.tumblr.com/post/623999800216584192/so-whos-gonna-be-the-one-to-draw-jaina-and#notes) Honestly, this whole thread is gold.


End file.
